


Equator

by TheGreenMeridian



Series: Globe [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Smut, a bit of yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: “Across the room, one of the students has evidently done well as Mr Bridgens breaks into a warm smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling in such a way that Henry feels strangely jealous of the boys who get to see it up close.”Hemisphere, from Henry’s perspective. And a little of how they came to love each other.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Series: Globe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839400
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	Equator

**Author's Note:**

> I got like 20 WIPs I’m getting nowhere with but I fired this out in 2 hours.
> 
> I exist on tumblr as thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com
> 
> I also have a blog for historical Terror and Erebus stuff, oldnavaldudes.tumblr.com

“What’s that about?” he asks, gesturing to the pair of ship’s boys hunched over a book and sat opposite one of the stewards. 

Bailey follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah! The school of John Bridgens, that is. Teaches the lads who want it how to read ‘n write. He were on my last posting, doing the same thing. Good man, is Bridgens, no matter what other hobbies he might partake in.”

Across the room, one of the students has evidently done well as Mr Bridgens breaks into a warm smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling in such a way that Henry feels strangely jealous of the boys who get to see it up close.

“What do you mean by other hobbies?”

“Time on land for him is the same as a long and lonely voyage, if you catch my meaning. But he’s harmless. Never gotten the cat for it, neither.”

“Oh.” He tears his eyes away from the steward and looks down at his meal instead, giving himself a moment to process the new knowledge and fight back the strange giddiness it’s caused until he’s sure it won’t show on his face. When he looks back up at Bailey, he finds he needn’t have bothered, for the man is engrossed in his stew. “Does he... does he just teach the boys? Or will he have older students?”

“He’ll take anyone, far as I know,” Bailey says around a mouthful. “Thinking of bettering yourself?”

“Perhaps. Never did get a chance to learn, might as well give it a go now.”

The rest of the meal goes as normal, though Henry finds himself unable to contribute much to the conversation. He doesn’t mention that he had ample opportunity to learn but was never capable, nor that he’s certain Bridgens won’t be able to help him, but the thought has nonetheless taken root. By the time he’s climbing into his bed, there’s a thrill of anticipation in his blood coupled with a nervousness he’s hard pressed to entirely explain away with fears of failure.

——

It takes a full week for him to feel able to approach Bridgens, even as they see each other regularly during the delays before launch due to both having lodgings at the same inn. His heart is half in his mouth when he finally knocks on the door to Bridgens’ room and moves there fully when it opens and Bridgens appears before him.

“Mr Peglar, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

“Lessons, Mr Bridgens. That is, reading lessons. If you’re amenable to it.”

Bridgens’ face lights up, and Henry gets to see for himself the shape happiness takes around his eyes. It’s just as arresting as he imagined. “Of course, Mr Peglar! Please, come in, take a seat. Let’s see what we can do for you, hm?”

He follows him into the small space and takes the offered chair while Bridgens perches on his bed. Despite himself, he chances a look around and is pleased by how well kept the place is. His own room, shared with Bailey and three others, is a mess and Bridgens room feels like a sanctuary by comparison. There’s a nice smell about the place too, of books and something herbal that grows stronger when Bridgens leans toward him.

“Are you a complete beginner, Mr Peglar? Or are you looking to improve upon existing skills?”

“A little of both, I suppose. My mother tried teaching me but... it’s hard to explain, but the letters...”

He trails off, frustration pulling the corners of his mouth into a frown.

“Is it as though they don’t stay in the same order, despite knowing they can’t be moving?” Bridgens says kindly.

“I... yes. Christ, yes, that’s exactly it.” He exhales a lifetime of embarrassment, a sound that shudders with the urge to sob in relief. “I always thought I was going mad, or that I was half imbecile.”

“I’d say you’re a very smart lad, from what I’ve observed of you. And not at all mad.”

“So, you think I can be taught, then?”

“Yes. It’ll be difficult, I won’t lie to you, but I think you should manage it. Provided you’re willing to work at it, of course.”

Henry grins, and a giddy laugh escapes his chest. “Of course I am! God, you can’t know... I loved stories as a boy, so very much. I loved hearing my father read from the paper, too. I enjoy the tales the men tell, but it’s not the same, is it? Nothing like the written word. I’ve so missed it since leaving home.”

“Then I shall be especially glad to teach you, Mr Peglar,” Bridgens says, eyes crinkling again. “When should you like to begin?”

“I’ve duty in a short while, or I’d say to start now. If you’re free, I could come here tomorrow, around seven, perhaps?”

For the first time, Henry sees a shadow of a frown appear on Bridgens’ lips. “You’d not rather meet downstairs?”

“Your room should be just fine. If it’s not putting you out, that is. I’d rather have the privacy, you see. I fear making a fool of myself.”

“Oh. Well, I understand, of course. If you would be happier here, you are more than welcome. Until tomorrow, then?”

He rises to his feet and Bridgens moves with him. When Henry takes his hand and shakes it, there is a warmth to it that seems out of place in the relative cool of the room. “Until tomorrow, Mr Bridgens!”

——

After the first lesson ends, he almost considers giving it up for a loss. The same urge pulls at him after each subsequent lesson, after repeated failures and difficulties chip away at his initial excitement and headaches become a constant feature of his lessons. But Bridgens is calm and kind, and Henry finds his motivation renewed by each smile he earns with his meagre successes. When they finally board the ship, lessons continue in Bridgens cabin, sitting almost thigh-to-thigh on Bridgens bunk. Only a day or two after they set sail, Henry offers use of his Christian name, and is uncommonly pleased when John accepts and offers his own in return. By the third week, any thought of abandoning his studies is lost. Lessons become interspersed with shared tales of life on land and previous postings, with Henry feeling the strange need to tell John of Alice, the girl he’d courted briefly before coming aboard the Beagle, and John talking mostly of his experiences with foreign lands. If John never mentions lovers or even friends, Henry doesn’t comment on it. He knows what John is. Knows that John must be careful in how he speaks, even if his habits are mostly accepted by the crew so long as he does not act openly. There’s always a degree of distance between them, too. The inch between their thighs, the minute hesitation before John accepts his parting handshakes, the careful way John avoids letting their fingers touch on the page. The way the curtain is always left open. When he lays a hand on John’s arm while thanking him for his patience, it sends a jolt through him much like how he’d felt when Alice had first given him a peck on the cheek.

Slowly but surely, his reading does improve. He can mostly follow along when John reads aloud, despite being distracted by both the trouble caused by the letters warping and the rich timbre of John’s voice. When he himself reads aloud, it’s faltering and clumsy but John gives him encouraging nods and helps him sound out more complicated words in such a way that Henry feels neither pitied nor useless. They move quickly from simple texts to more intellectual fare as John declares him too smart to stick with the books he uses for the boys. Every lesson involves some level of discussion about the books they share, and John seems genuinely interested in his opinion and more than once compliments him on his insights. More wonderful than that though is how animated John becomes while talking of his favourites. John has a particular passion for the Greeks, but Henry has known no joy like seeing the collapse of John’s normally careful control over revealing the punishable aspects of himself, when Henry remarked offhand that he thought Voltaire had the right of it on religion. Then, John’s face had changed and revealed an entirely new man. For the minutes that followed, Henry had become quite swept away by him, and it was only fear of putting his foot in his mouth that kept him from giving in to the urge to see if John would be willing to talk about his dalliances with men.

Though they remain unvoiced, the questions continue to simmer in Henry’s mind. He wants desperately to know why John is drawn to men, and if a man’s touch can be as pleasing as one from a woman. He wants to know too if there is any enjoyment to be found in buggery for the man taking it, for he considers there must be some reason that makes men continue to agree to it. That his wonderings become thoughts that keep him awake at night is not half so concerning as it should be.

After a week or so of catching himself glancing at John’s lips, he realises why exactly he’s so fascinated by the idea of John’s history with men. That, too, is not half so surprising as it should be. Knowing John as he does, it seems only natural that he wants to kiss him. And once that mental boundary is breached, he cannot stop thinking of more. He thinks of seeing pleasure take shape on John’s dear face, of hearing his voice roughened and whispering such sinful things in Henry’s ear. Denying the strength of his desire for John would be impossible and he finds he has no interest either in denying his emotions. He doesn’t know at all if men court other men, if there’s more to be had between men than the physical, but Christ how he wants it with John. But John makes no overtures towards him and Henry has not the first idea how to go about making his feelings known or even if he should, so he simply satisfies himself with John’s friendship and keeps his other thoughts for time spent alone in the privy or the depths of night in his hammock.

It’s just over two months into their lessons when Henry finds himself with a face full of pitch, being dunked in a tub of water to the riotous cheering of his crewmates. John’s is the first face he seeks when he emerges. The open pride he sees there makes him thankful that the mess on his face conceals his likely lovestruck expression at the sight. As if pulled by ocean currents he moves towards him and swept up by the excitement of the day thinks nothing at all of taking John by the shoulder and asking for his help with cleaning his face. They make their way to John’s berth and almost as an afterthought, John closes the curtain. The privacy, no matter how small, is thrilling. So too is the uncharacteristic tremor in John’s oil slicked hands as he brings them to Henry’s face. The touch is more than they’ve ever shared, and only by closing his eyes is Henry able to maintain some control over his breathing. It is no clinical undertaking. John’s fingers nap the shape of his face, stroking across him with something Henry desperately wants to believe is reverence. What little control he had begins to fail when John starts scraping the remains of the pitch from him with the comb. Each prickle of teeth over his skin makes him want to gasp as the sensation travels down his spine and more than once he hears his breath stutter. He doesn’t open his eyes as John moves away, nor does he open them when John gently tilts his head back. He thinks for one glorious moment that he will be kissed, but the press of wet cloth to his face is almost as pleasing. The rough quality to John’s voice when he apologises for the water’s temperature almost ruins him, so close is it to what he’d imagined, and he can barely force out a whispered ‘it’s fine’. Every touch, every caress has him suppressing shivers and he knows his prick must be glaringly obvious if John were to look down. He can only hope that he doesn’t. He hopes that he does.

John steps away again to dispose of the cloth and Henry finds himself frozen. His entire body is alive, every inch of skin demanding John’s tender ministrations and nowhere more so than between his thighs. Even when he hears John’s steps come to a halt and is certain his situation is obvious, he can do nothing but grip the edge of John’s bunk and try not to buck up. And then, John’s fingers weave into his hair, and he only just suppresses a moan.

“Touch me,” he whispers desperately. “God, John, touch me. I know what they say about you, I know you like it.”

It’s far from the eloquent declaration of love and passion he’d given so many times in dreams, but John strokes his hair again and Henry quivers.

“Are you certain?”

More than anything, he wants to say. God, he’s wanted this for almost the entirety of their friendship, perhaps even before then if he thinks to himself how much John’s smiling his students affected him. But all that comes out is a weak and needy “please.”

John’s hand takes his face, his thumb glides slowly along his lip, and Henry opens his mouth for it and holds it between his teeth without a thought. He lets John take it from him and is rewarded by the feel of John’s lips, softer than they have any right to be for a sailor and pulling away too quickly for Henry to respond properly. His eyes finally open in a panic at the loss, only to see John sinking to his knees with grace and looking at the obvious swelling in his trousers with hunger. The temptation of John’s hair proves too much and it is gratifyingly soft when he threads his fingers into it. He’s grateful to have something to steady himself with when John pulls his prick free and breathes over it in a slow exhale.

His one experience with this act was with a doxy, who took him in her mouth and worked him to completion most effectively. He expects John to do the same, but he doesn’t. Instead, fingers travel the length of him and John watches his every twitch and pulse as he gently explores what Henry offers him with a look on his face like Henry is some marvellous new discovery.

“Feel like one of that naturalist’s specimens, the way you’re studying me like that,” he says as he nervously awaits what is to come.

John raises one thick brow at him and smiles at him much like he does when praising Henry’s successes in their lessons. “Hmm, I’d say my interest is more aesthetic than scientific.”

With clever fingers, John manipulates his hood in such a way that Henry thinks it could be enough to make him spend, if only John did it long enough. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before and he can’t quite believe that he’s had the capacity to feel such pleasure and never once discovered it himself.

“Bloody hell, John, I’ve waited for this for months, don’t make me wait longer.”

There’s no response beyond another raise of his brow, before John is swallowing him down with ease and alacrity. His hips try to rise but John holds him in place with a strength that Henry finds almost as thrilling as the feel of John’s mouth, and it’s only a hastily clamped hand over his mouth that prevents him from yelling out his pleasure when John’s tongue slips into his hood. It’s like John is fucking it, every thrust of his tongue setting nerve endings on fire and forcing tears from Henry’s eyes and they clamp shut again. Immediately it brings to mind what John could do to other parts of him or what he could do to John, with fingers and pricks and perhaps even mouths. He’s hardly the time to get used to it before John is changing tactics and taking his length again. Embarrassingly quickly, he’s hurtling towards completion and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, not with John’s talented tongue pressing against him with every bob of his head, not with the realisation that he can actually feel John’s enjoyment of the act in the form of moans that reverberate down his shaft. When he feels the muscles of John’s throat contracting around him he’s lost, choking back a cry and spilling into John’s mouth as his body jerks with the force of it. 

He pries his eyes open to see John pull off him, lips shining, swollen, with a redness that is stark against the colouring of his beard. Henry’s hand immediately takes its place on John’s cheek as he stares down at him in wonderment.

“Let me do you, John. Tell me what to do,” he says hoarsely.

He rises on unsteady feet as John does the same, fumbles his own prick away, and reaches for John’s. It’s solid, tantalisingly so, and any thought that what John had done had been for his benefit only evaporates. John’s eyes are almost black with the size of his pupils. He nods stiffly, and Henry pulls him out. The tight inhale he makes when Henry has him finally in hand is the most beautiful sound Henry has ever heard.

“You don’t have to,” John says, strained.

“I want to. How do I...”

“Just... like you would with yourself,” John says. His eyelids flutter as Henry begins to work him, slow and steady, yet he keeps them open. “Mm. Yes, like that.”

John’s gaze is too much, so he looks down to see where they touch with a swallow. He’s suspected as much from the feel of it, but he cannot stop the shocked “you’re big,” that escapes his lips.

He feels John’s forehead against his own and together they watch as Henry pulls at him, the slick that dribbles continuously from John’s prick making each stroke wetter and more audible than the last. It’s better than almost anything, better even than seeing John between his legs. It’s only beaten by the way John feels, hot and thick and sticky with what leaks from him.

“Oh, Henry... mm, I won’t last, it’s...” John says, an apology in his tone beneath the strain of speaking. As if Henry could ever feel anything other than anticipation for seeing him spill.

“‘S ok. How can I get you there?”

John shivers at that and takes him by the hip. “A bit tighter. And... your thumb, just... yeah. Perfect. God, Henry.”

He feels himself twitch eagerly at the praise, at the way his usually eloquent John is reduced to this stuttering, trembling creature before him. His grip falters a little as John pulls a handkerchief from his pocket but it seems to go unnoticed. When he feels John’s hand begin to tighten on his hip, he gives into the urge to kiss him. He’s not sure if it’s allowed, if it’s what men do when they touch each other, but it doesn’t matter. He just needs – more even than he needed John’s mouth on his prick – to feel John’s lips. The sensation is so unexpectedly intimate he’s sure he makes a sound of surprise. God, he loves him. He loves kissing him, loves feeling his prick, loves working him like this. Loves every moment with him. John’s hand tightens further on his hip, Henry feels him swell and harden and then oh, John is throbbing in his hand and barely breathing against his lips, and Henry is pulling him through it until John can hardly stand.

John’s prick hasn’t softened by much when Henry tucks it away and he can feel the swell of it as he pushes away John’s fingers and sorts out his buttons. John himself is a melted candle, slumping forward yet somehow, even now, not closing the distance as well as he could. He lets John break away to sit down, steels himself, and sits beside him. It’s like they’re about to begin a lesson, only Henry moves closer and slides his arm around John’s waist. When John turns to him with a question on his lips Henry kisses it away. It’s answer enough, he supposes, because John kisses back and pulls him closer and closer until the only way to increase the contact is for John to lay back and Henry to land atop him. God, it’s perfect. John’s lips on his own, John’s hands on his back and in his hair, John’s body beneath him. It’s like he was made for this, like Henry’s entire existence was leading to this moment alone and now that he’s here, he’s certain that nothing but a repeat of it could ever make him so happy again. 

A sound in the hallways has him pulling away softly, and when John’s eyes drift open blearily, he looks as in love as Henry feels. “We should get up. You’ll be missed, soon. This is your day, after all.”

His hands stay securely on Henry’s waist, warm and broad, and prompting Henry to ask: “Will you dance with me, John? At the party?”

“You’ll have people talking,” he frowns. “You know my reputation.”

Foolishly, what Henry wants to say is that he couldn’t give a damn about John’s reputation but he knows the danger men like him face. Men like the both of them, he supposes. But they’ll not be aboard ship forever, nor will they only be mooring off uninhabited islands for the entirety of the voyage, and he lets himself imagine having proper rooms with John. Rooms in which they can dance and explore each other, rooms where John can show him the ways men can be together. He suggests the first aspect.

“I would be honoured,” John replies. He kisses Henry’s cheek and gently pushes him off and onto his feet. They look at each other a moment, until John gives him a soft look from where he stays sat and opens his mouth again. “Hear my soul speak. The very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service, there resides to make me slave to it.”

The words are recognisable to him instantly. The Tempest, the only Shakespeare they’ve done so far, and one of Henry’s favourite texts. He casts his mind hurriedly back over the scene, and replies honestly, “I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

The rush of relief that comes with saying it is reflected on John’s face, and they both gaze at each other like the smitten fools they are.

“Go. I’ll meet you at the party, my Henry,” John says with a little wave, as if he’s been wishing to claim ownership of him for as long as Henry’s been wishing to do the same.

He kisses John again, lingers against his lips until he finally forces himself away. Another moment spent looking at John’s face and seeing his own emotions reflected there, and then he’s slipping out the door and leaving a piece of his heart behind. He doesn’t want to go to the sodding party, he wants to stay tangled with his darling John, kissing him and holding him and maybe having another turn with him if they can both manage it, but he knows what must be and he’ll accept it if it means John’s safety.

The grin that stays on his face the rest of the day is seen by the others as a result of his crossing. It’s only John who knows different, and the equally broad grin on John’s face from across the crowd when the party starts is all Henry needs to dash away any lingering worries about what this means for them.


End file.
